


Flux

by octopus_in_space



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Eventual relationship, Eventual smut (maybe?), F/M, Feels, Female Reader, Flir-tea-tion, Flirty McCree, Humor, I want it to be slow burn but who knows, Lectures™, Reader-Insert, Some timeline tampering, with a dash of issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:12:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopus_in_space/pseuds/octopus_in_space
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overwatch was growing, Blackwatch was changing, and no one was free of their growing pains.</p><p>(Your adventures in Blackwatch, complete with cowboys and grumpy bastards.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a Reyes/Reader Blackwatch fic in my head, but when I started writing it, it became some weird mix of McCree/Reader and Reaper/Reader.
> 
> I have no idea where it's going, plot or pairing-wise, but I know that there will be relationship development somewhere along the road because I'm a sucker for slow burn.
> 
> Hope someone likes it enough to join this wild ride with me!

“You know, I don’t think Captain Reyes will ever die,” you mused aloud to McCree as you stood guard outside of the room.

He snorted in response.

“No, really. I’m pretty sure if Death ever showed up at his doorstep, he’d just give it that deeply grumpy look of his, with the short over-the-shoulder thumb gesture, like when we fuck something up and he’s summoning us to his office to rip us five new ones. Next thing you know, Death is apologizing to him, and booking the fuck out of there, saying he won’t bother him ever again.”

McCree barked a laugh at that. “I reckon there’s some truth to that. He’s the orneriest man I’ve seen west of the Atlantic Ocean, and I’ve seen quite a few.”

“I’m sure you have, with your wild adventures.”

A smile bloomed across McCree’s face. “I sure have. We could have one, too, if you’d like,” he propositioned, playfully waggling his eyebrows at you.

You giggled, and shook your head. “Sorry, no can do. We’ve got to keep watch here until our fearless leader recovers. Should be anytime now, and then we’ll see.”

“Aww, ok,” he pouted, with exaggerated disappointment. As fake as it was, it still pullled at your heartstrings. You shoved that feeling away, and hoped that it didn’t show on your face.

“What I don’t get is why you still “yes, sir, no sir,” him. Hell, there’s no reason to even call him Captain, ain’t none of us have official titles, an’ you've been in our little club almost as long as he has. Hell, you get just as much respect from everyone, if not more.”

“Well, he is our fearless leader,” you said with a mix of joking and seriousness.

“As such, I believe he deserves my respect. Plus, there's been some. . . ”

You paused, wondering exactly how to phrase it. While Blackwatch was not quite official in the legal sense, it was recognized and mostly respected within Overwatch. It was also necessary, in order to be able to carry out certain actions that nobody wanted to admit were necessary.

For some reason, not many people viewed Overwatch as a military-esque operation, even though that's exactly what it was. It had a global range, and freer reigns than country based armed forces, and while people were charmed by the astounding amount of good they did, it made them blind to how Overwatch became the grand power that it was.

They put them on a pedestal that Overwatch itself built, and then seemed to forbid them the right to maintain that pedestal.

As such, the organization and its shadow were feeling a slow, agonizing tightening of a noose.

“. . .tension between Mom and Dad. Mom wants the garbage taken care of, but doesn't like seeing what's in the trash bin.”

You leaned toward McCree and spoke in hushed tones. “I also heard that there's been some outside pressure to choose a commander. You know Jack couldn't give two shits about it, not with the amount of paperwork that would come with a position like that. But the people like him, and he's good at talking to them.”

You rocked back on your heels. _Jack sure does have the people skills, but I'd kill for him to slow down and think sometimes._

“Personally, I think Reyes is a better choice. He's a good tactician and he gets everyone out of trouble and all of Overwatch’s messes straightened up in the blink of an eye. I would hate to think where we’d be without him.” _Unfortunately, he's also ruffled some important feathers._

McCree looked at you with a sharp gaze, the previous lightness having evaporated with your words.

“So, that's why he’s been a bear for a while now.”

You shrugged casually in response.

He eyed you, waiting to see if you'd give up any more information.

“I really don't know where you find the time to dig this stuff up. I swear, you're flying all over the place, day and night, keepin’ this place going, burning yourself up like a candle lit at both ends. D’ya even sleep?”

“I do,I do, don't worry. You give me too much credit, thou-”

“Now don't even start with that nonsense. We'd be up shit creek with no paddles a long time ago if it weren't for you, and him in there would be dead.”

You knew there was no arguing with McCree when he got stubborn over something. Something in your chest tightened over the fact that he was worrying over you, but you shoved that back down inside yourself to look at later.

You put your hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay, once the Captain is up and running again, I'll take an afternoon off. Happy?”

He scowled at you, his ever-ever present cigar threatening to fall out of his mouth. “A whole weekend would do you better. You'll end up in an early grave like this.“

“Look, shouldn't we be worrying about him, not me?” You countered, desperately trying to get his attention away form you. It was flattering, but it made you feel, which was uncomfortable, and the whole reason you buried yourself in work to begin with.

“He'll be fine; he's got you looking after him. But you - you do such a good job at looking after him an’ the rest of us that everyone forgets you're human too, and --”

“You're right.”

You avoided eye contact and abruptly turned away from him, walking toward the door as if it was your last hope.

“I'm going to go check on Reyes. Check in with Mercy and let me know when she'll arrive.”

\---

Gabriel snapped into awareness, but fought the instinct to stiffen his body. He kept his eyes closed as he took stock of the state of his surroundings.

The air smelled musty and old, but vaguely familiar. He could hear the murmuring of voices, and relaxed slightly, recognizing McCree’s drawl and the soft sound of your voice, accompanied by the hum of a biotic emitter somewhere close to him.

Knowing that his surroundings were secure, Gabriel turned his attention to his body. He could feel his feet and hands, so everything was still attached, which was a small comfort. Parts of the right side of his face stung, and he recognized the feeling of fresh scars attempting to heal. He'd have to find a mirror to see how bad it actually was.

The rest of his body felt like Lena had parked the ORCA on him as a joke, and then forgotten to move it. Any effort to move felt like he was trying to swim through molasses, and his mouth was sticky with thick, sweet saliva that hinted at dehydration.

Gabriel turned his head and opened his eyes to take in his surroundings -- a sparsely furnished room that held the bed he laid on, a rudimentary chair and desk, medical supplies, and his shotguns. The furniture was of the same type used in many of Overwatch’s safehouses - he could recognize them, as you tended to stock the safehouses you managed with identical supplies.

They weren’t scheduled to stop at any safehouses after the mission . . . but it was obvious the mission had gone awry, as he had ended up in a bed and not entirely sure of what had put him there.

He had begun to sort through his memories to piece them together, when his attention was drawn to the door. He heard McCree’s voice get louder - it was threaded with both anger and worry - and yours sounded off guard and vulnerable and struggling to conceal that fact.

Both surprised him, as the pair of you were usually happy-go-lucky, incorrigible jokesters. He didn’t always approve, but he couldn’t deny that your respective attitudes went a long way to lighten the atmosphere at Blackwatch.

Gabriel heard your voice cut through the air like the crackle of frost - its suddenness adding a sharp, biting edge that signaled the end of that conversation.

He heard the click of the doorknob turning and watched you enter the room.

A shadow of something intensely bitter crossed over your face, before being quickly replaced with your usual, pleasant countenance as you approached him. The speed at which you switched from negative to positive emotion raised a flag, and he marked it for later discussion.

“Oh Captain! My Captain,” you intoned dramatically as you clasped a hand to your heart.

“The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won! The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting --”*

The absurdness of the idea of people cheering for his return wrenched a snicker from him. You faltered in your recitation with a wry smile as you approached his bed, and grabbed the chair on your way.

“Knock it off with that Captain shit already,” he grumbled, but the words lacked heat.

You hummed in acknowledgement as you placed the chair down next to his bed and sat down.

Gabriel always complained at your using the unofficial title, but it was too late. The entire Blackwatch team had already adopted it, though almost none used it to his face.

“It’s good to see you awake. You took a nasty blow to the head and have some cracked ribs, with some bonus injuries,” you reported,frowning slightly.

“I did what I could,” you continued, “but I’m afraid you have a couple of new scars. I assure you - only the finest of scars for Captain Reyes. They add character, and I’m sure the ladies will go even wilder for you. We’re close enough that Mercy will be with us soon, and she’ll be able to patch you up even better.”

Gabriel looked at you silently, and assessed your posture - tense, worried, guilty.

You met his eyes, and your frown deepened, waiting for his reaction. As he hadn't responded to your joke, you feared for the worst, but a part of you was sure that in this room, _you_ were the one being the hardest on yourself.

He watched you for a moment, and then spoke quietly.

“Thank you.”

The genuine gratitude in his words bowled you over. It was your fault he was in this predicament to begin with! You couldn't understand or accept his thanks. If anything, you owed him your life. Without his intervention, you would have ended up a headless mess, at best.

“No, please don't thank me. We both know it's my fault you're in this situation. I'm so sorry. From here on out, I'll be sticking to logistics and my usual information mongering, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to put me on the field again.”

Gabriel straightened up in his bed and you could see the steel begin to form under his skin. Alarm bells went off in your head, and you felt like you were pushing your luck.

“With some work, you’d be a fine soldier. We finished the mission and made it out alive. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a success.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“That not a good enough answer for you?”

You could see the anger bubble up in him, displayed in the straightening of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. You were grateful that he was bedridden, as you were sure he would be looming over you if he could.

“Fine. You owe me for these,” he firmly gestures with his hand to the fresh, angry, barely healed scars on the right side of his face -- the most prominent one was long, starting from the middle of his cheek, and stopping above the edge of his nostril, and then continuing on the side of his nose. Another, smaller one graced his cheekbone, and a third graced his lower lip. Your stomach dipped with smoldering, oozing guilt as you looked at his face.

“And these,” Gabriel gestured to his ribs. If he couldn’t get you to listen through compliments, then he’d bind you to his word by way of your guilt and your loyalty. He didn’t prefer the latter, but it was better than letting your potential go to waste.

You jumped out of your chair and moved backwards away from Gabriel, overwhelmed by by your sudden anger at his words. You both were and weren’t surprised that he would try to manipulate your sense of loyalty - whatever he would twist to get his way, loyalty usually wasn’t it, and it wounded you.

“Fine. But don’t think that I don’t see that you’re guilting me into this. It’s not ok,” but that guilt would still be enough to compel you to listen to him.

You pushed the chair back towards the desk, too agitated to sit. You turned away from Gabriel, and picked up the biotic emitter, inspecting it.

“It should have a couple hours left in it. Should be enough until Mercy gets here,” you stated curtly, eyeing him over your shoulder.

He scowled at you and nodded. You didn’t expect much more of a response at this point.

You heard a knock at the door and McCree entered.

He looked at the two of you, as far from each other as the small room would allow, and gave you a questioning look. You returned it with a flat one, and gestured with your hand for him to get on with it.

“Watchpoint says Mercy’s too tied up to meet with us, an’ they’re sending Reinhardt to escort us back to base,” McCree reported, his voice tinged with dissatisfaction.

“Of course,” you scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. Recently, Blackwatch requests to the medical department for supplies and support had been met with subtle resistance. It had started with small clerical issues and “convenient” supply shortages, and escalated to delays in medical attention. The supply shortages were swiftly debunked by you, as you monitored supply orders for multiple watchpoints, but Mercy stalling with providing treatment was new. She usually jumped at the opportunity to heal the wounded, but combined with the other issues, it didn’t look like Blackwatch was in her good graces.

You briefly wondered if Gabriel had done something to upset her, or if her “morals” were getting in the way of doing her job. You’d have to look into it once you got back.

“When will he get here?” you sighed, suddenly exhausted. You let your arms fall to your side as you began to pace between McCree and Gabriel’s bed.

“About four hours. Enough time to get some rest and get ready to get out of here.” McCree placed his hands on his belt, fiddling with his gaudy buckle while waiting for your response. He could tell something was off, but wasn’t sure if the worst had already passed.

“All right.” You turned to Gabriel and spoke in clipped tones. “It would be best if you could get some rest.”

“I will. Don’t forget.”

His reminder galled you, and you left the room, not caring if McCree followed after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Reader quotes lines from "O Captain! My Captain!", a poem by Walt Whitman. I definitely recommend it.
> 
> Like it the story? Loathe it? Let me know! I'd definitely appreciate feedback, since this is the first longer work that I've written in about a decade.
> 
> If you want to scream at / encourage me, feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://bone-orchestra.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and light flir-tea-tion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting, I've had a wild couple of weeks! I really wanted to have something to post by my birthday (9/14), which is the only reason this wasn't delayed further. If you see any errors, let me know and I'll fix them ASAP. I'm posting this from mobile.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

You stalked out into the living room of the safe house, fuming. 

The urge to throw or break something was strong - not because Gabriel had manipulated you into training, but because you had gotten yourself into a position where you would allow yourself to be manipulated.

You knew that if you really wanted to, you could refuse and nobody could make you attend. Hell, your own work kept you busy, and it could easily take you away from the watchpoint for many months if you so chose, but as he had saved your life and gotten injured doing so, you felt as though you owed him. 

On top of that, you knew that Gabriel was right. You did need to work on your combat skills. They were average - borderline rusty - as you much preferred your information gathering to going out guns blazing and being a hero in the public’s eye.

Your only saving grace was that you moved quickly, but that didn't help you when you got distracted, as you had earlier.

The distraction wasn't from a lack of attention - in fact, it was the opposite. You noticed so much detail that if something caught your eye, your mind would latch onto it, and prioritize analysis of the new information.

This split between what you were supposed to be doing and whatever had caught your attention had been problematic when you were still green. Over time, you had taught yourself to successfully balance your attention between both channels of incoming information, but had never done so in a combat situation. 

Being in a combat situation was an overwhelming stimulus to begin with - analyzing your opponent's body language and potential actions, as well figuring out counter actions, all while pulling out your pistol and having a mental crash course on the fastest way to kill a man and save the freaking out for later.

What threw you for a loop and allowed you to be singled out and maneuvered into an empty, decrepit building was the fact that something about your attacker seemed somehow familiar, and you couldn't figure out why.

That familiarity niggled at you, and you had decided to use yourself as bait to see if they would slip up and reveal some information of use.

Unfortunately, they were in more of a shooty mood, and decided to speak with their bullets.

You would have been killed if Gabriel had not intercepted the blow, which had sent you both flying across the room and into a wall. He had softened your impact with his body, but that hadn't kept him from pushing you aside and firing shots at your attacker.

Although his shotguns had some range, they had only grazed your opponent before they managed to escape, apparently deciding to fuck off after being outnumbered. Their parting gift was to shoot out the support beam that was right above Gabriel.

It fell on top of him, knocking him out. You heard a sickening crack and almost redecorated the room with vomit.

Suppressing a scream, you called McCree and gave him instructions on where to find you. By the time he had shown up, you had manage to move the beam off of Gabriel, and had started to take inventory of his injuries.

The only fortunate thing about this situation was that the three of you weren't too far from a safehouse on the outskirts of town.

Which led you to where you were now. 

One man out, four hours of downtime, and you with a temper snappier than a whip, all because you had tried to gamble and lost.

Before you could brood yourself into a proper angst session (you did have four hours with nothing better to do), you heard McCree walk out of the bedroom and head toward you. 

You made sure to be facing away from him to discourage his attention, and to your surprise, his footsteps grew quieter. You heard him start to putter around in the kitchen and exhaled in relief. 

At least you had a moment in which to compose yourself. You were sure that McCree would join you at some point, as you had abruptly left your earlier conversation.

Though you had been rude in order make a point and get him off your back where your health was concerned, you knew that he was too stubborn to let it lie, and that you had only bought yourself a brief reprieve. When it came to topics that McCree deemed important, he was relentless until they were resolved in his favor.

This doggedness was what made him an excellent Blackwatch agent, and a reliable friend. However, you were just as stubborn, and this lead to occasional clashes between the two of you, especially where personal matters were concerned.

In this case, as upset as you were, McCree didn't deserve to bear the brunt of your displeasure. If anything, he had the right to tell you and Reyes to pull your heads out of your asses and grow up.

The scent of peppermint wafted towards you, briefly pulling you out of your thoughts. You angled your body toward the kitchen, watching McCree out of the corner of your eye. The refreshing smell relaxed you a bit, though your anger and guilt roiled deep in your gut, like a storm at sea.

You turned away from him and toward the couch in the living room, plopping onto it. It was an older, worn affair, but soft and plush. You settled in the corner of couch, and slowly stroked the arm of the couch closest to you, immersing yourself in the feeling. 

You knew that you should steel yourself for round two of the conversation with McCree, but your mind was restless. It was ceaselessly analysing the events of the day, calculating any possible courses of action that could have resulted in a better outcome. The only result was the churning of your stomach and a rising sense of frustration.

You took another deep breath and willed your mind quiet. There was no point in agonizing over something that couldn’t be changed, and upsetting yourself further would do no good with minimizing the aftereffects of the event.

Withdrawn as you were, you didn’t notice McCree approaching until he was about to take a seat on the middle of the couch. He set down a teapot, two mismatched mugs, and bottle of bourbon.

You eyed the bourbon and tilted your head in question, before looking at McCree. 

This was not at all what you had expected.

He wiggled from side to side in his seat, settling into the couch before turning toward you.

The smell of him wafted toward you - sweat, dirt, the acrid gunpowder from his Peacekeeper - all accrued from the mission - as well as leather, and a few other scents. One was something warm, reminding you of deserts and kitchens in full swing, and the other was something clear and oddly refreshing that you couldn't identify. You swore that between the two scents, you could smell hints of dried plants. 

Altogether, McCree’s scent was something distinctly belonging to him, and it was familiar and relaxing.

“Y’ look like you need both,” he said, gesturing to the tea and bourbon with a hand, but I'll let you choose.”

You hummed in response, still waiting for a trap to be sprung.

“If I have the bourbon, I'll fall asleep.”

Seeing you hesitate, he continued speaking.

“Ain't nothing wrong with that. After the day you had, you need some of that too.”

“I still need to check the safe house's inventory. . .” You continued to deflect out of cautiousness, but had to admit that the offer was tempting. 

“I can do that while you have a nice drink and get some rest. How about it?”

He moved to pour tea in both mugs, and you sighed, knowing that he was right. Your guilt made it difficult to allow yourself rest, wanting to do something productive to make up for your failing.

On the other hand, you had faith that McCree could take stock of the safe house and watch over you and Gabriel with ease.

“All right, all right, I'll rest, Mom,” you responded, gently teasing and being a model hypocrite, as you were the team's mother hen.

“I knew you'd see reason,” he said with a smile in his voice, and proceeded to add a generous serving of alcohol to the tea.

For a finishing touch, he pulled a fresh sprig of mint out of his shirt pocket, and tore the leaves off of it, slightly crushing them to release their scent before adding them to the tea.

“I recommend sippin’ it. It's meant to be thoroughly enjoyed,” McCree mentioned as he handed you a mug, the handle facing you. 

You accepted the mug with a dip of your head and a whispered word of thanks. Something about the way he spoke made your face heat up.

You brought the mug up to your face and inhaled deeply, allowing the scent of mint and bourbon to wash over you. Your eyes fluttered shut in enjoyment, and you missed the gentle expression that passed over McCree’s face as he watched you. 

You felt the couch shift as McCree leaned back into the cushions but kept your eyes closed as you took the first sip of your drink.

The warmth of the drink felt like a gentle fire flowing through you. It started at your stomach, replacing the roiling anxiety that had been holding your guts hostage, and spread down your limbs to your feet and hands, and rose up to your chest, settling somewhere deep inside. You could also feel your face flush, and the feeling continued upward until it blanketed your scalp. You swore that you could feel every single hair on your head.

It was exactly what you needed.

“Are you sure you're not trying to get me drunk, McCree?”

He chucked.

“Only if you want me to.”

You fell silent. You and McCree had gone out drinking many times over the years, but until tonight, neither of you had personally made drinks for each other.

If you had only known he had such skills, you would have pestered him long ago to play bartender for you on a regular basis.

You opened your eyes and looked at McCree.

“It's lovely,” you gestured toward him with the cup before continuing. “I wouldn't be surprised if you moonlighted as a bartender.”

“That's mighty sweet of you.” A grin sprawled across his face, and he reached up to his hat to tug it down, as if trying to hide it.

You felt a smile bloom across your face in response. You hadn't expected his reaction - you had never seen him abashed by anyone or anything before.

“Nah, this here is special. I only break it out in case of emergencies.”

You looked down at the mug, touched that he would share something so dear to him with you. It lent an additional dimension to the warmth flowing through you, and made you suddenly shy.

“Well, it'd be worth almost dying for again,” you admitted, talking directly into your cup.

“I'll make it for you again if you promise not to tempt death so casually.”

You snorted, as he and Captain Reyes tempted death on almost a weekly basis, but held your tongue. You weren't willing to risk losing drink privileges over a sassy remark.

You took another sip and hummed in appreciation. It struck you that this could be his way of apologizing for pressuring you to take of yourself. You never thought you'd see the day. 

Luckily for him, you weren't above being bribed in such a manner. It would be a nice cherry on top of a busy day, once in a while.

The two of you sat in silence, sipping your drinks in intervals. It was a comforting silence, and you felt yourself starting to nod off.

You relaxed to the point where your eyes would droop shut, and your head would fall to your chest. That sudden movement would startle you into snapping your head back up and blinking, as if trying to chase consciousness with your eyelids.

After the third cycle, where you could no longer keep your eyes open, you felt the mug being lifted out of your grasp.

“Don't worry, you'll get it back later. You go an’ get some rest now. I'll wake you when Reinhardt gets here.”

The hand that had been half-heartedly reaching out to reclaim the drink slumped into your lap.

You mumbled your assent and pulled your feet up onto the couch, and somehow managed to take off your shoes without too much difficulty. It occurred to you that you must have looked silly, as you refused to open your eyes while battling with your shoes, but the thought didn't stick.

You were asleep before your shoes hit the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm humbled/overwhelmed by the pageviews, kudos, bookmarks, and comments; I thought this fic would die somewhere in a dark alley of AO3, haha.
> 
> I hope to be able to post every week or two, as I am trying to write at least 2K words per chapter, instead of 500 words here and there, but it takes me a while.
> 
> Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts so far!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt and co. are making their way downtown, walking fast, faces pass and they're lecture-bound.
> 
> (In which Reinhart picks up our heroes three, dispenses advice, and brings them back home.  
> Reader avoids thinking about life and receives an inevitable reminder to be present.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking three months to write what feels like a filler chapter! I had started writing this back at the beginning of October, but ended up getting a job (thank goodness) and having to adjust working again and suddenly having way less free time in exchange for not going broke.
> 
> I was also unsure about where to take this story, but after several pages of plot and scene ideas (and a spreadsheet for timeline & character age tracking purposes) I have slightly more of an idea of where this is going. It still continues to surprise me as I write. Dear ol' Reader has more of a backstory than I ever thought they would.
> 
> (Also, apologies for any wonky formatting issues. AO3 has decided to chew up some spacing and doesn't want to let me fix it. It's driving me nuts over here.)
> 
> Content warning: anxiety, emotional repression, friends expressing worry over your repression

You were awoken by a low stream of sound, familiar but fuzzy. As you stirred, the sounds came into focus, and you realized that McCree was speaking to somebody.

 

You felt a weight on your shoulder, initially hesitant before settling more firmly and proceeding to shake you gently. A groan of protest escaped you and you burrowed further into yourself.

 

The low stream of sound picked up again and you finally realized that McCree was speaking to _you._

 

“Wake up, sunshine. If you don’t do it yourself, Reinhardt will in a minute.”

 

You leaned into the hand on your shoulder, as though pleading for more time. It gave you a gentle squeeze before disappearing.

 

“Come on, you can get more rest back in your own bed at base,” McCree spoke coaxingly.

 

You nodded sleepily and unfolded yourself up and out of the corner of the couch, stretching briefly.

 

You had hoped that that a nap would refresh you -- all it did was give your body a chance to write a laundry list of grievances, in bold, red, block lettering, and underlined angrily in a couple of places.

 

“I’m up, I’m up.” You grumbled, your voice husky from sleep.  
  
“Good. Didn’t want you having a cardiac event as a result of Reinhardt barging in. Last thing anyone needs right now,” McCree responds, sounding serious while his expression is anything but.

 

“Ha. Ha.” You deadpanned at him. You had completely lost track of time, but it was still too early for McCree’s shit.

 

Before he could continue to tease you further, you heard the door to the safehouse open, and Reinhardt stepped in.

 

Well, more like ducked and and turned sideways to crab-walk in, due to his ridiculously large stature. You had to stifle a giggle. Most modern places had no issue accommodating Reinhardt’s build, but anytime you went to any place off the beaten path with the man was a treat. It was downright comical, especially in any countries where the average height of the citizens was five feet or below. Watching Reinhardt cheerfully struggle with undersized utensils, seating - you name it - was a sight to behold.

 

Reinhardt turned to the pair of you with a wide grin and a booming greeting.

 

“Hello, my friends! It is good to see you!”

 

You lit up like a candle. It was good to see Reinhardt, too. His enthusiasm was better than coffee when it came to waking up.

 

You waved enthusiastically at him and crossed the room faster than you thought your sleepy and adrenaline-worn body could manage.

 

Reinhardt turned to face you fully, and a cloud of seriousness descended over him. You felt a weight settle in the air between you, and knew he was about to impart something important.

 

You sucked in a breath, your chest feeling oddly constricted.

 

“I am especially glad to see you alive. I had heard what had happened, and it would have been a tragedy to lose you or Gabriel.” He seemed to loom over you, his features severe and etched deeply into his face through the losses of the previous war. It was a language only those who had suffered similarly could read, and no one in the safehouse was exempt.

 

You choked back a sob you hadn’t even noticed crawling up your throat, and turned your face away from Reinhardt, not wanting him to see your distress. You shook your head and inhaled deeply, pushing those emotions deep inside you as possible. You felt an emotional wobble inside of you, as though warning you that you were getting too full of your own repressed emotions, but you paid it no heed. You’d stick them in that internal shelf and that’s where they’d stay.

 

While having this brief internal battle, you did not notice McCree and Reinhardt exchange a look above your head.

 

You gulped some air before letting your eyes open and facing Reinhardt again, praying that coherent words would come out of your mouth.

 

“It’s good to be here.”

 

Oh, good. Words.

 

Reinhardt smiled at you - his smile so suddenly brilliant that the previous mood evaporated like dew after a sunrise. “Let us get the team back home.”

 

You nodded, looking around the room, suddenly unsure what to do, and looked between McCree and Reinhardt. You felt oddly out of place, your guilt pulling at your feet, sucking you into the ground like mud.

Reinhardt took a step toward the back room, patting your shoulder as he passed by. The gesture warmed you and you felt like you could breathe a bit easier.

 

“I will go fetch Gabriel and take him to the truck.”

 

You nodded, and went to follow before being stopped by McCree.

 

“I got that shortage list you wanted. There’s not much missing - sent it to your e-mail.”

 

You smiled, letting your eyes pass over McCree with gentle admiration before huffing out a quiet ‘thanks.’

 

He smiled back and the whole room felt brighter.

 

“Well, I better get the Captain’s shotgun’s and the kit before we “forget” them.” You brought your hands up in mock quotation at the word ‘forget’.

 

McCree chuckled. “Already beat you to it. They’re by the door.”

 

You gasped dramatically, bringing a hand up to your chest. “You packed out _everything_? Who are you?” You squinted, giving McCree a most impressive scowl as you placed your hands on your hips.

 

“That’s the kind of thanks I get for helpin’ you out?”

 

“No,” You flailed, waving your hands in front of you, as though trying to physically push away that accusation, “ . . . but it’s not what I expected. I’ve heard complaints about you slacking off more than compliments on your thoroughness.”

 

“Man’s gotta have his secrets,” was his teasing response, “‘B’sides, I’ve gotta keep you on your toes.”

 

You tilted your head questioningly, dropping the scowl’n’glare act. “What for?”

 

“No reason,” was the infuriating response. You swore his smile only grew bigger.

 

You crossed your arms in front of you and huffed.

 

Before the conversation could continue, you heard Reinhardt exclaim something loudly. You couldn’t make out his words exactly, but they sounded chastising.

 

“Come now, friend! You cannot make this trek alone.”

 

“I’m _walking_ to the front door.” Most people would have made it sound like a negotiation, but the Captain made it sound like fact.

 

“Nonsense! With those ribs, you are doing no such thing.”

 

You heard a soft, indignant huff and some shuffling before a pained growl erupted into the air. The smugness radiating from Reinhardt could be felt even out of sight.

 

“Fine.”

 

You and McCree looked at each other, careful not to burst out into laughter and make Reyes even more uncomfortable. Without exchanging words, you grabbed the kit, McCree grabbed Reyes’ shotguns, and you made for the door.

 

“We’ll see you at the truck,” you called out as you darted outside.

 

Reinhardt waited until the door clicked shut before fully turning to face his colleague. He looked Gabriel over from head to toe, fully taking in his sorry state before speaking.

 

“I was wondering how long it would take for your weariness to show.”

 

Gabriel frowned deeply as he shuffled toward the living room, one hand trailing against the nearest wall, just in case.

 

The larger man continued to speak, unfazed.

 

“I do not think it fair the way you have been treating your team. The more you push them away, the weaker you become. I know that you of all people value good teamwork, but lately it seems that you are needing a reminder before it may be too late.”  Reinhardt wiggled his mustache, as though speaking the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

The silence coming from Gabriel thickened and he finally looked Reinhardt in the eyes. Both men regarded each other fiercely.

 

Gabriel waited, letting the silence drag on until he felt something in him snap with a loud exhale.

 

His entire being sagged suddenly, and the hand that was not bracing him against the wall went up to his face, covering it. He dragged the hand down his face, as though trying to wipe off the shame and exhaustion.

 

“I know, I know. . .,” he spoke, as though admonishing himself, as he shuffled the last couple of steps to the couch before sinking into it, resting his face in his hands.

 

“There’s something stirring, Reinhardt. Certain things just aren’t making sense and nobody is listening, and I have to be careful how I bring it up. _If_ something happens,” the emphasis heavily implying that something _would_ happen, “I can’t take them, you, all down with me.”

 

“You cannot control that, Gabriel. They made their choices, as did you, as we all do, every day.”

  
Reinhardt sunk into the chair across from Gabriel.

  
“I fight this fight to serve a higher purpose. It is my hope that Overwatch will continue to uphold good causes, but . . .” here, the older man paused, picking his words carefully, “I am not blind. I know you and your team exist because there are not only good things in this world. You do the things that many cannot, and do not get enough thanks for it, I know. It is hard work, and too much for one person. If you worry that we have been compromised, then don’t throw away the loyalty that is being offered to you.”

 

Gabriel nodded, leaning harder onto his elbows for a moment. He let his head hang for a moment, before shaking it and straightening up, attempting to muster some energy to stand.

 

“I guess you’re right.”

 

* * *

 

Once Reyes was convinced into accepting help, it took no more than ten minutes for everyone to get settled. The trip itself was another two hours, during which Reinhardt shared stories of his latest adventures. There was a decent amount amount of commotion due to several new watchpoints being planned. You did the majority of the planning for the establishment of the chosen sites, but Reinhardt was entrusted with choosing the locations themselves.

 

He had a keen eye for strategic locations and layouts and was an invaluable asset. His ease of maneuvering conversations due to his sunny disposition was also a boon and did wonders to lay the groundwork for many of Overwatch’s plans.

 

Part of your job was to build off the foundation set by Reinhardt, as you had friends in many places and a good eye where money was concerned. It didn’t hurt that you knew how to draw up precise contracts quickly, either. The paperwork was tedious, and you would rather light it on fire and throw it off the roof, but your work was unfortunately the fastest and most accurate, and so you got stuck generating it or proofreading it.

 

At any rate, friends and verbal contracts were nice, but legally binding paperwork was better. Especially when you had other friends to help push it past the mountains of red tape that were part and parcel of being a burgeoning global organization.

 

While Reinhardt continued describing the locations of the three potential sites - one in Canada, one in South America, and one in Spain, with a fourth potential in Vietnam slated for the year after - you got lost in your thoughts.

 

There were many countries that wanted the prestige and protection that came with hosting a Watchpoint, but not many that were suited to it. Originally, it took many months of negotiation to approve even the mere idea of a Watchpoint, but after Grand Mesa’s establishment - which had taken an excruciating _four years_ from start to finish - everything after was easier.

 

Especially after the closing meeting, where the United States had tried to fault the Overwatch development committee for the lengthy construction time, you had pulled out a large folder with several reams worth of notes and dropped it on the table.

 

(Archaic in this day and age of holo-screens? Yes. Effective? Also yes.)

 

Once all eyes were on you, you began to describe each new request by date, the setback it had caused, and which party had requested it in. Once the United States representatives had recovered from their shock and tried to cut you off, you had silenced them with the statement that although their requested changes should have cost years of time for implementation on top of the years of negotiation, the Watchpoint had been built in under a year and had exceeded their expectations.

  
No one dared argue with you after that.

 

You had taken a after that year to create a set of rigorous protocols for the establishment of future Watchpoints that was approved by the rest of Overwatch and the UN, as nobody wanted to deal with another Grand Mesa incident or the possibility of your departure from the Watchpoint construction committee.

 

This process had paved the way for many of the Watchpoints and safehouses that had followed after.

 

You shook your head, not willing to think too much about the things that had happened after Grand Mesa, and instead looked out at the Swiss countryside, Reinhardt’s voice in the background soothing your thoughts.

 

The endless greenery, while lovely, was also monotonous and boring, so you turned your attention to the rest of the occupants in the truck.

 

The transport truck was nothing fancy. It had two seats up front that served as a barrier between the front and the back of the truck, with a short and narrow hallway between the two sections.

 

Embedded into the back of the seats were storage shelves, followed by a bench seat lining each side of truck, and plenty of storage below the seat, embedded in the sides of the truck, and overhead storage to boot. Each section was easily accessible and all of the storage sections were modular and could be rearranged or swapped out as needed per mission, or left in their stock configuration.

 

The only thing that the truck was lacking in was comfort. You had done your best in this regard by curling up in a corner toward the back of the truck, feet on the seat and knees tucked up to your chest, and with a vantage point allowing you to look at any of the other occupants if you wanted to.

 

Gabriel was sulking in the corner left and across from you, back straight, head bowed, and feet flat on the floor, unwilling to suffer the indignity of contorting himself into odd shapes for the sake of comfort. His eyes were closed, and he looked deep in thought, but your eyes fled from him quickly, not willing to invite his attention.

 

Jesse was sitting up front, next to Reinhardt, listening to the older man’s yarns. Jesse, while rambunctious, did love to tell stories - more like illustrate them like an artist on canvas, but instead of paint, he used broad gestures and different voices to draw in his audience and keep them captivated. He could give the smallest events a careful twist, drawing out their deeper meaning and making a person re-evaluate everyday truths. He also had the gift of making bawdy bar tales sound appropriate, so it was a win-win as far as you were concerned.

 

Despite having a tongue that could flap at both ends, he held great respect for the older members of the group, and always made time to hear them out. You found this to be at odds with the way he portrayed himself (unruly cowboy of the plains), but hadn’t yet called him out on it. You found it too sweet to describe in words, fearing that naming it would cause it to disappear.

 

Jesse caught you looking at him, and a mischievous glint lit up his eyes. You looked down in a smile, feigning coy ignorance of your own actions, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, but refusing to give him the satisfaction of a second look. You knew he could only look away from Reinhardt for so long before it would be considered rude and were happy to wait him out.

 

A couple of moments passed, and while you felt McCree’s gaze leave you as expected, there was a different, slightly heavier air that replaced it.

 

You raised your eyebrows in puzzlement and looked toward Gabriel out of the corner of your eye.

The only difference you could spot was a deeper scowl etched into his face, but no clue as to why. You were almost entirely sure he was not concerned with anyone else in the truck, but his actions, subtle as they were, seemed to indicate otherwise.

 

You turned your face to look at him more openly, and felt the odd atmosphere abruptly settle.

 

As odd as the moment was, you didn’t give it too much thought. Everyone had had a taxing day and was allowed to decompress in their own ways. If intensely scowling at all of existence was Gabriel’s way of doing so, who were you to question it?

 

* * *

 

After the two promised hours, the business end of the Swiss Watchpoint came into view. The watchpoint was one of the few open to the public to allow politicians, businessmen, and the average civilian to visit, for practical and tactical reasons. Allowing the Everyman that Overwatch vowed to protect to visit the Headquarters gave people an opportunity to feel like a part of something bigger. It was also more difficult to fear that which you could touch and see for yourself.

 

This arrangement, however, meant that the headquarters were split into two - the public side, and the restricted side (for security reasons). It also meant that you, and many of the other first members, had two offices. Most didn’t care to venture out into their public offices often (aside from filling the yearly quota), but you found it refreshing to make yourself available to the public. You got to see all sorts of people, young and old, and from all walks of life that decided to visit, and in a way, you were touched that they would want to visit and spend some time with you. Being in contact with the people you vowed to protect helped ground you and was a good, constant, in-your-face reminder of why you chose to dedicate yourself to Overwatch.

 

Aside from this, Watchpoint: Zurich was not your favourite watchpoint. Both the public and restricted sections were aboveground. The public one, you could understand why. The restricted one, however . . . . not so much. You weren’t sure who decided that there should be no subterranean levels and didn’t agree. You were sure the architect was a civilian and no military input (somehow!) had been provided.

 

As a result of the Omnic Crisis, many military bases had a strong core underground, using the earth itself as a defense against the Omnic’s senses, along with many layers of other insulating material. It proved to be a life-saving tactic, and the fact the headquarters didn’t subscribe to the same idea was vaguely unsettling.

 

You understood that it was most likely for show - a symbol that Humanity had survived and has no need to hide - but it also made you feel exposed and unsettled. One of many quirks bestowed upon you as a result of the war.

 

You tried not to think about it too much.

 

The only other saving grace of Watchpoint: Zurich was that it was not located in Geneva. Gabrielle (Adawe), the founding member of Overwatch that was also conveniently part of the United Nations, had confided in you that the location was chosen because she needed a break from the UN Headquarters.

 

You were eternally grateful for this decision.

 

In no time, Reinhardt had cleared the security checkpoint and parked the truck. Before you could unfold yourself from your corner, Jesse had exited the vehicle and circled around to the back, swinging open the rear doors and moving towards Gabriel.

 

“Alright, we’re here! Time to escort you to Dr. Ziegler.”

 

Before you or Gabri- _Reyes_ could react, McCree had spirited him away in the direction of the doctor’s office.

 

Which left you and Reinhardt.

 

You suddenly sensed that some form of Lecture™ was incoming and tensed. You tried not to show your discomfort, knowing that once Reinhardt deemed a conversation necessary, nothing could persuade him otherwise, not Man nor any act of Nature.

 

“Come, friend. We have returned home,” Reinhardt greeted as he turned the corner around the transport, extending a hand toward you to help you down from the vehicle.

 

You graciously took his hand, resigning yourself to the inevitable. Reinhardt chuckled, knowing very well the look on your face (you swore that he knew exactly the type of dread he instilled in people in these occasions and _enjoyed_ it).  
  
“Do not worry, I will not lecture you on an empty stomach. Let us grab something from the cafeteria and find a good place to talk.”

 

You nodded and let yourself be lead toward the compound.

 

* * *

 

Once food had been procured, and a suitable location found (neither Reinhart’s office, nor yours, but a neutral location, extra neutral given that you were in Switzerland), the meal commenced.

 

Reinhardt was kind enough to have chosen a location by a window, allowing you both to watch the sun set as you ate. You couldn’t really taste the meal you were eating, as the post-mission adrenaline dump made you feel like you could keel over on the spot and sleep for days, but you appreciated the thought. The Watchpoint’s food was generally top-notch and you knew it was better to eat something rather than let yourself starve due to exhaustion.

 

As you watched the brilliant hues of the setting sun play over Reinhardt’s face, you were transported elsewhere. For a split second, he was a different man from a different place, fifteen years and a whole lifetime ago. You felt your heart constrict and the vision faded.

 

You were back in 2066 again and sighed, placing your utensils down on the table.

 

Your appetite was gone.

 

Reinhardt noticed the change in your demeanor and huffed, following your lead and setting his utensils down with a gentle clink of metal against porcelain.

 

“I have been meaning to talk to you for a while now,” he started, his gaze piercing deeply into you.

 

You felt the blood in your veins start to freeze, the chill emanating from your heart and slowly winding its way through you to your extremities. You inhaled deeply, willing the fresh air to spread some warmth through you.

 

“I know you do not wish to talk of these things, and I know it has been many years. . . . but I do not think you have ever laid these things to rest.”

 

You opened your mouth to protest, but Reinhardt cut you off with a wave of his hand, palm down, and you closed your mouth with an abrupt _click_.

 

“This does not mean that you need to forget him, but you should not carry his ghost around with you. There are still good things in this life that you will miss out on if you carry on like this. The dead are not good company, and you cannot be half-ghost, half-person, living on memories. They will fade and you will be left empty. I have seen it many times, and it is hard seeing it happen to you, too.”

 

He sighed deeply, a great sadness settling over the both of you. You couldn’t summon words to respond, feeling peeled open and raw. His words were like an arctic chill cutting deep into the hidden parts of yourself. You thought you had been doing a good job of living, at least on a day to day basis.

 

It was hard to tell with your workload, as the years had started blending together in the last half-decade or so. . .

 

“I worry about you. I am not the only one that does.”

 

You nodded dumbly.

 

“Please, at least think about it. It would be good to have you back in the land of the living again.”

 

You rocked back and forth in your seat, still reeling from Reinhardt’s bluntness. You did not think you had been worrying anyone, and felt like you were at a crossroad of guilt. One road was the long road of incessant, internal grieving, the other was the suddenly exposed crossroad of worry caused through your lack of awareness. You suddenly felt suffocated by your own guilt and the regret that floated up from it.

 

You let your head fall to the table with a hefty _thunk_ , uncaring of how loud or painful it was. The strength of your sudden realization, shining deep from within the shawl of guilt was humbling. Well, as humbling as a bright neon sign could be.

 

“Reinhardt, I’ve been such an idiot without even realizing it. I thought the grief would leave on its own, pack its bags and get up and go after a couple of years. I didn’t even realize it had moved in, rent-free, and started redecorating the place.” Your voice was muffled, given that your forehead was still one with the table, but you got the feeling that Reinhardt understood you anyway.

 

Your realization and acceptance of what Reinhardt had probably been trying to tell you for years felt oddly freeing. You inhaled, and it felt like your lungs suddenly had more space in them than they had in a long time.

  
Freedom smelled oddly minty, with a hint of aftershave that floated up through your memories like an old friend. You felt a sense of warmth gently surrounding you before fading.

It felt like absolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, the Reader character turned out being older than I thought she would be, and with a previous relationship (and other surprises). Hopefully, nobody minds.
> 
> Also, although the Reader is finally acknowledging some aspects of her emotional repression, doesn't mean that she's suddenly going to be A-OK. Issues will still be cropping up here and there for her, as opposed to magically disappearing.
> 
> I also got a suggestion to give the Reader a nickname so she has something to go by, rather than being the nameless wonder. It will happen, but not for a couple of chapters, as I want to work it into the story.
> 
> Just wanted to let you all know that I am open to suggestions. I'd love to hear your thoughts!  
> You never know what might make it in. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Reader confronts old ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I am so sorry it took forever to write another chapter. I have been trying to write this thing for _four whole months_ . I think about this fic almost every day but have been struggling with jotting it down. Serious feelings are hard to write, yo.

Of course, absolution only lasted about 15 minutes.

You looked at your plate, decidedly uninterested in its contents at this point, and sighed. It would only turn into ash in your mouth.

Reinhardt gave you a knowing look. “It will get better over time.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. Would have been better if I had just dealt with it. It's been 15 years, I could have made peace with it by now. . .” you shrugged and gave a wry smile.

“Better late than never, I guess.”

“That's right! And who knows, maybe letting go of old things will make room for new ones.” Reinhardt spoke with a teasing, all-knowing tone that made you itchy. You squirmed in your seat, discomfited by his implication. You were never one for sharing much of your private life, and after not having one for over a decade, it felt like peeling back your skin and exposing your insides to stadium lights.

“Isn't it a bit soon for that?”

“Maybe not. If you are fortunate to be found by love, why not embrace it? I know it will take you some time to adjust, but you were always the most adaptable of us. You've worked hard and punished yourself enough, I think. Look at all you've helped establish,” he gestured across the cafeteria,” I think it is something worth being proud of and enjoying.”

Sensing your mood, Reinhardt shrugged with a shoulder, but didn't push the matter further.

You let loose a deep, windy, sigh and slumped in your seat. You knew he was right, but it felt like too much to think about at the moment. There were things you had to take care of first before being able to consider a.) allowing other people to get that close to you, and b.) letting yourself open up to receive anything anyone else has to give.

Right now, you had the feeling that the people around you had been quietly fighting tooth and nail to get you to come back to yourself.

You felt like you owed them to put the same effort into yourself. That many people couldn’t be wrong about your worth, no matter what you thought of yourself.

You had been avoiding yourself for a very long time - it was time to change that.

You straightened up and pushed your plate and utensils away from yourself on the table. Your hand felt a bit sweaty, so you quickly wiped them off against your pants while looking at Reinhardt.

You weren’t sure how to express yourself, so you just looked at him for a moment, letting the feelings within you bubble up slowly.

There were too many to sift through right now, all tangled up in each other, but the one you focused on was a mix of gratefulness and relief. You were so lucky to have people that cared enough about you not to give up.

You felt the corners of your mouth turn up into a small smile and saw Reinhardt mirror it.

“Thank you, Reinhardt.”

You felt something deep inside you tremble and it felt terrifying. You didn’t know if it was living or dying and you begged it for some time. All you needed was to get back to your office to at least have some privacy before dissecting yourself.

You planted your hands on the table and pushed yourself back, the chair scraping the floor in protest.

“I have some things to take care of,” you trembled as you stood up, feeling like a baby deer taking its first steps. “I may need your help.” You felt your face flush involuntarily, this was miles outside of your comfort zone.

“Anytime,” Reinhardt responded without missing a beat, “Just let me know when you need me.”

You reached towards your discarded plate and utensils, but Reinhardt shooed you away.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You go take care of yourself.”

Your smile hesitantly grew, but you looked away, unsure how to respond and feeling very much out of your element. You murmured something affirmative and waved before turning away from him and the cafeteria.

You walked down the hallway toward the internal offices, trailing your fingers on the walls as you passed. Something about this moment felt like you were experiencing the Watchpoint for the first time.

You looked around, observing the walls and angles of the inside of the building, how light streamed in through the windows and traveled across your path, the sounds of other people around you (murmured conversations and a variety of footsteps), the hum of machinery (a constant whir of power, punctured by an occasional door opening or closing, and quiet high pitched whirr/pings of consoles recognizing your passage, just waiting to be activated if needed), a light breeze, in part generated by the air system, in part carried by the movement of people. All of the colors felt so bright and fresh, everything you perceived felt crisper and newer than you can ever remember it being - even during the construction of the watchpoint, when it was being built up from ideas - half skeleton, half guts.

Something inside you settled (as if clicking into place) and briefly, you felt like you belonged. You savored this moment and tucked it away by your heart. You knew it wouldn’t last forever, and that you’d need to reference it later for strength.

Slowly, you passed by a couple of offices and some of the indoors training grounds, before reaching your own office.

It was in the heart of the facility.

The offices of the original strike team were in the core, arranged in blocks with meeting rooms scattered between, in case Shit Went Down, which happened more often than anyone wanted, but not nearly as much as it used to during the Crisis.  
  
(Privately, you thought that some of the agents were getting complacent and could use a little bit of shaking up, yourself included.)

Outside of this mix were free-to-use offices - these were open for anyone to use at any time, and were mostly used by agents visiting from other Watchpoints, and occasionally Swiss agents not wanting to be found. They were activated by keycard and would remain keyed to the occupant until they left.

You used the term ‘keycard’ loosely as the ‘card’ part of it was optional. Some agents preferred to have it embedded in their armor, some kept it as a card, and others had it placed beneath their skin. McCree had it as a part of his belt buckle and you kept it as an earring. (No one knew where Gabriel kept his -you liked to think it was in his beanie.)

Your office was keyed to your earring and a hand gesture to open, so long as you were within five feet of your door from the outside.

The other public rooms and consoles were proximity and gesture sensitive, as well. The key part here was _gesture_ _sensitive_.

You remember when HQ was first being established and the consoles were finally installed and turned on - the whole base was alight with a cacophony of “ _piiiing!”_ s going off whenever any console registered movement. This lasted for a _whole week_ until the gesture system was implemented.

You had invested in some solid ear plugs a couple of hours into this catastrophe and were not bothered by the chaos.

By the end of the week, some enterprising individuals had figured out that the waking tone of the consoles could be changed, and were dancing symphonies down the halls. It was clever and the dancers were surprisingly flexible. It crossed your mind that McCree would have enjoyed (and possibly participated) the display, but it was long before he had joined. Maybe you would dig up a recording and show him sometime.

The closer you got to your office, the more nervous you became. A large weight settled on your chest and you sucked in a breath, steeling yourself for the task ahead. You withdrew your fingers from the wall, and huffed small half-laugh at the dust and grime on your fingers. It was a long time since you had touched anything outside of your usual routine (holoscreen, clothes, utensils, and a loofah.) You left it there, revelling in the difference in texture.

You swiftly performed your key-gesture as you approached your office, and walked in through the door as it slid open, not waiting for it to open fully. You were afraid that if you gave yourself a second to think, your resolve would falter again, not to be found for another fifteen years or some equally ridiculous amount of time.

You walked past your desk and deftly snagged your earpiece as you passed by, hooking it onto your belt loop for the moment. You knew you would need it soon, but putting it on right now felt like it would be equal to putting on your business face and armor for an act that deserved your full attention and respect.

You approached the back of your office and performed a different gesture with one hand while pulling out an actual, honest-to-god metal key with your other.

The weight on you magnified.

You felt your heart creak in your chest as you turned the handle to this door and pushed it in.

It was a quirk of his, preferring old fashioned doors to the ubiquitous sliding doors. Said he liked the feeling of opening a door on his own, interacting with the moment of moving from one space to another, from one frame of mind to the next.

The coolness of the handle was refreshing and terrifying all at the same time.

Your entrance was heralded by a swirl of dust, moving gently and lazily, as if beckoning in. You looked down at your feet as you entered the room, letting your gaze slowly travel upward. Something flickered on the edge of your vision and your heart spasmed inside your chest.

Your head snapped up - for a split second, you had expected someone to be there.

Of course, the room was empty.

An exhale tore itself out of you – you hadn’t realized you had been holding your breath.

You let your eyes travel across the room, taking in the contents.

Gently floating end tables guarding a solid wooden bed – intricately carved, passed down through the ages. A matching dresser, with holo-albums stacked on its surface, patiently waiting. A window on the far side of the room, the shutters down, but curtains drawn back.

You slowly approached the wall across from the bed.

It had photos fixed to it with magnets, as well as a couple of notes.

_“Good luck on your next mission! I already miss you!”_

_“Don’t worry, I will be back before you know it.”_

A couple of hearts and _I love you_ s were scattered across the wall in a couple of languages, souvenirs from some of the places you had visited. Reminders for armor repair, and clothing pickups.

Your vision blurred and you looked away briefly, still moving forward. You heard a quiet _plip_ of something liquid hitting the floor.

The wall lit up with a gentle hum once you were a foot away and cast a soft cyan glow across the room. It displayed a row of times in the upper right corner, all of the major time zones represented, with a task list below reaching the bottom of the wall.

All of the tasks were red and flashing -- _785 weeks overdue; reschedule?_

You wanted to laugh and vomit at the same time.

Instead, you wiped your dirty hands off against your pants, and drew a sequence on the wall.

_Zero-six-six-three-four-seven-sierra-romeo._

You placed your palm flat against the wall and it pinged cheerily in confirmation.

Your hand fell to your side as the center of the wall receded slightly with a hiss and proceeded to slide to left.

As the door retracted, lights flickered on and revealed a large suit of armor docked in a recessed platform, resplendent despite the massive amounts of damage it had sustained. The suit was of an earthy brown color with silver accents matching the curved horns adorning the helmet and the profile of the goat’s head you knew rested on the shield arm.

You took stock of the damage - one of the helmet’s horns was mangled horribly but jutted proudly in the air despite this. Both hands were blackened and the top layer of the armor was stripped away in places and revealed the rough layer of insulation beneath. Of the two, the shield arm seemed to have suffered the most. This trend continued on the left leg.

All in all, it barely fit on the pedestal it occupied, with the tip of the undamaged horn nearly scraping the top of the closet. Your heart seized in your chest.

“Hey Siggy, long time no see.”

You gently stepped into the closet, almost as if afraid to stir up old ghosts, and reached out to touch the suit, caressing the destroyed shield hand gently.

“I know you would be disappointed in me for grieving so long, but we were both stupid stubborn, so I hope you understand anyway.”

You looked around the rest of the closet, letting your hand fall to your side. You took stock of your clothing, wigs, and other accessories on either side of the suit. All was as pristine as the last time you had been in here. You found yourself struck with a deep nostalgia for when you used to be an active agent.

You looked back up at the suit of armor.

“Time to go.”

You felt your heart drop straight out of you, and a resounding silence shook you. You don’t remember the last time you were completely, utterly quiet on the inside. The lack of sorrow and guilt and shame singing through your being was uncomfortably foreign and you could feel a part of you yearning to fill the silence with familiar misery.

You unclipped the earpiece from your belt and slotted it in your ear. It buzzed gently.

“Reinhardt, are you there?”

“I am here!”

“Would you mind joining me in my office?”

A moment passed.

“I’ll be right there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current hopes:  
> \- That this doesn't fall into cliche backstory territory.  
> \- That I won't take another six months to update.  
>  _*crosses fingers*_


End file.
